


She's Missed Him

by Leigh_B



Category: Warcraft, World of Warcraft
Genre: All of the Headcannon, And frostwolf pups though, Dancing Troll Village, F/M, I don't know why not., Part of the Silly Human fic I'm currently writing, Sex with Trolls, Shatterspear Vale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leigh_B/pseuds/Leigh_B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A NSFW excerpt from my Silly Human Fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Missed Him

**Author's Note:**

> So uh... yeah. I think this is pretty self explanatory O .O Oh, wait! God, forgive my attempts at a troll's accent. Amen.

            It is a tranquil sort of morning. This is unexpected. The monsoon season snuffed out the foggy summer with an abrupt drop in temperature, followed by the onset of nasty torrential gusts and a cacophony of violent thunder. Abby is just considering herself reacquainted with this discordant weather when it shudders to a halt sometime in the night. She wakes to the peaceful purr of quiet showers tapping against the thatched roof of the hut.

            She comes into herself slowly, enjoying the instinctual languor that sidles in during wet cold weather. She blinks heavily and sighs. She slips in and out of dozing as she focuses on the sensations of her body one at a time. She feels the softness of the furs beneath her and the warm whisper of blankets against her skin. As she burrows more deeply under the covers, Abby takes in big gulps of air. It tastes thick with rain, but feels crisp in her lungs due to the ambient chill of the season. She smells mageroyal and peacebloom drying in the rafters. She catches notes of muddy earth and the heavy spices lingering from last night’s supper. A small whiff of wet fur alerts her to Asha’s presence. He’s nearby, keeping a respectful distance away from his sleeping master, as every well tamed pet should in such circumstances.

            Abby feels a welling of childish pride. Her good boy must have been up to check on the raptors. It was likely that they had begun to vocalize some complaints about the shift in weather, and her worg had gone about seeing to them as best he could without the aid of opposable thumbs. She is still a bit too drowsy to become overly concerned with the raptors’ mild discomforts.

            Everything is queerly colored. The purple landscape bleeds into the cloudy grey dawn to cast an odd periwinkle sheen over the morning. Abby’s eyes take many long minutes to adjust in spite of the dim lighting. She is lying on her back, head lulled to her right and facing out of the open entry. She is on the cusp of the home’s interior, hip pressed against the partial wall of the doorway. She looks out through the wide gaps between the hut’s large structural columns. Having to stretch her gaze beyond the veranda’s overhanging roof reminds her vaguely of Gran’s porch back in Elwynn forest, and a lance of grief pierces through her breast before she can ready herself for the pain.

            For an instant, the heft of her sorrow weighs as heavily as it had the moment of her loss. Abby retracts the tender morsels of her reminiscence, breathing in through her nose and blocking out the similarities between this bleary morning and others. She closes her eyes for a few minutes more, focusing on the comforting feel and scents surrounding her.

Asha lets out a concerned half-whimper. She can hear as he scooches his large body over the rough planks of wood that make up the nearby terrace’s flooring. The stench of his fur is more potent as he comes up beside her. His warm tongue swipes at her temple. She grips his muzzle and shoves it away, the violence of the action a bit more peaked than she intended. Asha does not take offense. Instead, he settles his nose back against her temple, and the both of them pretend that she doesn’t allow a few tears to trickle out of her eyes.

Abby sucks in another large breath after she manages to curtail her little outburst. The chill of it sings against the walls of her lungs. She huffs a bit, patting blindly at Asha and shooing him away in a much more gentle fashion. His nails click on the wood as he trots down the steps. The noise of other villagers milling about has begun to slink past her daze, and Abby wonders vaguely whether or not Abenni has bothered to check on the raptors. She doubts it.

Rather than rouse herself and begin tucking away her nest of bed things, Abby rolls her head slowly to the left. The tense coils of her muscles put up sweet objections as she stretches her neck and shoulders by arching up a bit. She seeks out the huddle of blankets and furs that is Ten’dajin’s mother. The old troll woman is prone to aches and pains during the change of season, and Abby spent a good deal of the night before attempting to keep a fire burning so that Mamére would stay good and toasty. The oppressive heat that she stoked in the hearth had driven Abby to position her bedding near the open door in the first place. The cold wind and occasional nips of rainwater felt like a mercy to her last night. Now Abby worries that she’s allowed the temperature to dip so low that Mamére will suffer when she wakes.

Abby does not move still, staring intently at the sleeping troll. She cannot see her blue hide or chipped tusks. She cannot smell the herbaceous musk that lingers on Mamére’s breath and skin. What she _can_ make out is the shock of red hair that protrudes from the wrap of blankets. It is in jagged tufts that remind Abby of clumps of ruddy sungrass. The old woman managed to pass her vivid mane of hair onto both of her children, though Abby notes that some of the tone has bled away from Mamére’s hair where Daj and Abenni still have flaming crests atop their heads.

A bittersweet tang creeps up the back of Abby’s throat as she watches Mamére rest, and it is the risk of these culminating emotions overtaking her once more that finally gets the human out of bed. She rouses herself, stretching her limbs and arching her back again. She pads out onto the veranda, shivering as the chill bites into her flesh and the misty rain puffs into her eyes.

There is a bowl, carved from the shell of a great oyster of some kind. It is pearlescent and bright, the wide shallow lip of the shell is positioned to reach out past the roofing of the porch and into the rain. It has collected a pool of clean water back in the deeper portion.

Abby cups some in her palm, bringing it to her lips and drinking greedily. The water is sweet and cool. She repeats this motion a few times to sake her morning thirst before wetting a nearby linen cloth and vigorously scrubbing her face, neck, and then her teeth. The cloth is stretched over the railing of the porch, and Abby returns inside. She stirs up the dithering remains of last night’s blaze, coaxing it into an open flame by feeding it large hunks of wood that Abenni dried out with a spell a week or so before. Abby stays close to the fire, its yawning warmth welcome on the skin exposed by her sleeping clothes. She reminds herself that she needs to ask Abenni to come over and dry out more of the woodpile outback as she frees her hair from its braid and combs it out. She is in the middle of re-braiding it when a shadow falls over her.

Before she can look back and scold whomever it is that has so rudely prowled into their home uninvited, a large cloth sack plops into her lap. Abby blinks, fingers still tangled in the half done pleat of her hair, as the sack begins to yip and whimper. The bag’s occupant paws at its material, fumbling around in an unmistakably canine way.

“Who _you_ be?” a familiar voice drawls in clumsy, heavily accented common. “Seated all cozy by mah’ hearth?”

A giddy burst of laughter erupts from Abby’s mouth as she abandon’s her hair in favor of scooping up the wriggling sack. She hastily begins to wade through the extra fabric in order to free the creature within. What emerges is perhaps one of the cutest things Abby has ever seen in her life.

A frostwolf cub, so young that his milk teeth protrude awkwardly from his bottom jaw, wiggles free of the course fabric and nestles up against Abby’s belly. He attempts to climb up her torso while giving her some petulant whines and a pleading look. He is small and warm. His eyes are a muddy blue color that has yet to drift toward indigo or sink further into more traditional browns and golds. The thick undercoat of his fur is brilliant white, drifting toward faint blues around his stubby ears and oversized paws. For now, he is mostly pale fluff. Abby remembers reading, however, that frostwolves develop a course overcoat to help them combat the frigid climate they inhabit. His dense coat will become bluer and bluer as he ages, forming unique patterns over his spine, face, and down his legs. His wet little nose is black as coal, and freezing cold where he nuzzles against her flesh.

Ten’dajin watches this entire affair with a smug sense of satisfaction. She can feel him exuding it over her shoulder as he meanders around to her side and settles on his haunches near the fire. The large male troll shucks off his layers of armor once settled. He chucks them haphazardly out of the entryway.  Their porch quickly becomes a disarray of leather and chainmail. She does not care.

“Well, hello my sweetheart,” Abby coos. She speaks in Zandali. Her face is angled down toward the pup, but she is sure to keep eye contact with Daj.

The troll tuts, shaking his head at her. “Hello ta’ you too, Mô shou.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Abby asserts in a lofty tone. Daj snorts at her. “I was talking to my new baby dog.”

“Of course ya’ were…” the troll drawls sarcastically.

The pup laps at her fingers as she tries to pet his ruff. The little rascal finally gains a foothold in her cleavage and claws his way up to her neck. Her nightclothes provide little protection from his sharp nails, and his oversized bottom teeth scrape the tender skin.

 “Ouch!” Abby squeaks, pushing him back into her lap and petting to keep him situated there. “Watch those paws!”

Ten’dajin laughs outright.

Mamére’s voice carries over the caws of her son’s laughter. “Ya’ two be making da’ loudest fuss I heard since mah’ whelps were in their wailing days.”

            A pang of guilt bolts through the undercurrent of Abby’s conscience, but she is far too happy to give it much mind at the moment.  

\---

            The day passes as most do in the rainy season. People scurry to finish chores when the storms ease. Trading is done quickly and efficiently with no time allotted for the small talk. Abby misses the chance to speak with Abenni about firewood before the druid sets out to visit a friend in the Barrens. Talshi and Gran are too busy in the lodge full of whelps to want for company. Mamére is particularly cross today, and not keen on conversation. The busy daily pursuits of all the other trolls in her acquaintance leave Abby with only Daj to talk with for the day, and that’s just fine.

            She’s missed him. Missed him terribly.

His cocky, sharp-toothed grins and low, rolling cadence have been on her mind since he left for Draenor. When he sent word back that he’d been awarded a garrison to command, Abby accepted that she’d be waiting a long time to see him again. It was not something easy to come to terms with, but she wasn’t one for bemoaning circumstances. To have him back after a few short months seems too good to be true.

The evening is closing in quickly. Dusk wells in the corners of the forest, deepening shadows and blending up through the trees to consume the weakening sunlight that struggles to filter through the heavy cloud cover. Everything is already dim as evening, the barest hint of ambient lighting ekes down from the sky. The canopy of treetops, emerald and royal purple, diffuse the light into a mild glow. It’s very difficult to see much of anything. The rain has dwindled to a spitting mist, though the occasional loud crash of thunder proclaims that the storm isn’t half finished yet. Abby can her the webwoods chittering in their burrows and the occasional scream of a moonstalker in season, calling for its mate. 

“And now you can stay home, just like that?” she enquires as they meander beyond the village edge.

This is not the first time she’s asked a form of this question. Ten’dajin barks a stunted laugh that speaks of exasperation. “Yes, Abby. I can.”

She loves to hear him say her name. It’s like it opens on a sigh. His accent turns the nasal sound of the short _a_ into _ah_. _Ah-by._   

“Can I ask what happened with the garrison, Commander?” She is only slightly mocking of the title.

He’s gone out of his way to deflect all questions relating to his reason for leaving the garrison. “Don’t worry about it, mon. Why are ya’ talking wit’ me about ‘dis?”

            She thinks of repeating a flip answer that she delivered earlier, but refrains. She stops walking, letting him get a few steps ahead so that he won’t have to show her his face. She’s read reports about what happened in Draenor. She knows the fighting was brutal. She knows that he couldn’t have left that place without scars. When she speaks, her tone is uncharacteristically quiet and serious.

            “Daj, why are you back so early? The orc that brought us news of you stated that it would be two years before we could expect to see you.”

He does not respond to her question, but has fallen still ahead of her as she hoped he would. She can see nothing more than a silhouette of his massive, lanky frame. His slouch deepens, and tension bunches his shoulders. She does not know whether to read the movement as a sign of growing anger, or a groundswell of despair.

“Abby,” his voice is a gravely purr. “I am here. I be wit’ ya’. Wit’ my mother and sistah’ and tribe. I am home.” His shoulders straighten, and he shakes his head. The bone charms dangling from his left ear clack together. “Let me be home for a little while, yeah?”

His hand extends back to her, she can’t quite make out where it is. Abby walks a few paces closer and fumbles until her palm is against his. Ten’dajin’s huge hand swallows hers. His callouses are rougher than sandpaper against her skin. She lets him pull her to him. He’s mindful of his tusks as he positions them with her face tucked against him and his chin on top of her head. He slides down until his nose is against her hair. He inhales, deep breaths that send goosebumps shivering up her arms. He smells like leather and rain. The barest hint of greenery from the silverleaf soap he used earlier clings to his skin.

Trolls do not have marriages. They don’t consider spouses an exclusive, necessary, or particularly interesting part of a person’s identity. Abby appreciates this most of the time; comparing her pedantic, gossipy beginnings in Stormwind City to the casual, inviting warmth of the tribe. In this moment, she reverts. She thinks about husbands and wives and what they mean to one another. She wonders if she’s ever going to want anyone else. She wonders if he considers her a defining aspect of what makes this place home.

She reaches up and wraps a hand around one of his tusks. The sore one with the crack running down the side. She steps away from him, and gives the tusk a rough tug. He yelps a bit, but she knows that she hasn’t caused him real pain. She also knows that returning to their teasing air is important for the both of them.

“You’re free for now, turncoat.” There’s play venom in her words. “But I will soon discover what has befallen your garrison.”

He tuts at her, putting a hand on top of her head. “Abby, ya’ really aren’t in a position to be pointing fingers and calling people ‘turncoats.’ Ya’ do remember belonging to da’ Alliance once? Ya’ remember jumping to join da’ Horde?”

“Be quiet,” she orders with halfhearted aggression. “I remember just fine!”

The rain starts to pour like the flip of a switch. Abby shoots Daj an ornery look, knowing that his superior vision will allow him to see her clearly. She jerks his face forward by the tusk before ducking under it and darting toward the house. She hears him curse in a variety of Horde languages, Orcish standing out because of its especially violent consonants. He chases her. She tries not to slip in the mud or trip over any forest debris as she sprints home in the dark, excitement bubbling up her throat as a childish peal of laughter. 

            Abby wins the race. She does not find Mamére at the house. In her stead, there is a note:

                        Whelps,

I went to Abenni’s to find some quiet. Don’t ya’ _dare_ come bother me. I’m old and tired. Also, I took da’ dogs. Da’ baby one was fussing something awful.

 

            Panting from the exertion of the run, Abby waits just under the veranda. When Daj lopes up the steps she flashes the note at him. He doesn’t need to read it to know what it says. She grins. They both know why Mamére went to the next hut over. They also know why she took the puppy. It’s courtesy to offer privacy for couples when you can, and the attention that the baby animal would need tonight would have been… distracting.

Trysts out in the forest for the sake of discretion tend to result in some pretty catastrophic incidents of webwood attacks and other unsavory injuries incurred by people not paying attention to their surroundings. Abby and Daj had managed quite a few rolls out in the woods with no calamity for the old trolls around the market to snort over. Abby would like to keep it that way, and she is grateful to Mamére for offering them this time.

Thunder crashes loud, the lightening beforehand illuminating the smirk he returns to her. She turns her back, peeling the clinging linen shirt from her body and letting Mamére’s note crumple inside the wet fabric as she tosses it onto the floor of the porch and steps inside of the house. Ten’dajin is right on her back. She is giddy, and stepping quickly. The remnants of adrenaline from their game of chase send little jolts shivering through her veins. The fireplace glows with steady embers, and she sees her path to their bedding. Daj catches her arm when she heads toward the pile of blankets and pillows. He steers her toward his worktable in the back instead.

She’s game for that.

With a sweep of her arm, Abby shoves the excess leather, thread, and whatnot to one side of the table. She perches her hips on the edge, rocking up off her feet. Ten’dajin does not miss the invitation. He grabs the waist of her pants and underclothes, tugging them down unceremoniously so that Abby can kick them off before planting her feet back down on the floor. He grinds his hips into her backside, the ties of his leathers more abrasive than she’d like against her naked skin. He holds her upright, keeping her spine arched just a hair beyond erect with his big hands curled over her shoulders. His thumbs press rough caresses in the crooks beneath her protruding shoulder blades, and he kneads the flesh beneath his palms with the sort of reverence that’s meant to be saved for slow intimacy.

Abby is not currently interested in pursuing slower forms of devotion.

She tries to drop her upper body down to the tabletop, but he holds her in place. They wrestle a bit, him keeping a firm grip while she squirms and tosses to gain room. Unfortunately, she’s played herself. Her hips are trapped where she placed them against the lip of the table, and he’s as good as a wall behind her.

Abby swats her hand back at his hip, the bare skin of his torso reacting to her slap with a satisfying crack. Troll hide is thick. She knows she hasn’t hurt him. If anything, she’s caused herself more harm by tagging one of the little metal studs used to pin belt loops onto leathers. The sting of the little circle burns as it presses into her hand. Daj snickers at her frustrated outburst.

“Oh, shut up and take your pants off,” she orders, bucking back into him. The pout that puckers her lips rounds the snap out of her words.

She can feel him, hard and thick in his trousers. She rolls her hips against his arousal. He rumbles with approval, leaning away from her and placing one of his hands between her shoulders. He bends her over the table with persistent pushing. She resists just enough to feel her muscles give to the strength of his arm. It reminds her of a good morning stretch. Once she’s flat over the table, Daj drags his hands down her spine. His rough palms rasp over her skin. Abby mentally names the various activities that have brought about his callouses by identifying the patterns they’ve left behind.

The rain left on her skin is uncomfortably cool when he leans away to wrestle out of his clothing. She steals the opportunity to brace one of her forearms between herself and the edge of the table. She doesn’t want her belly or thighs knocking into the hard wood. Daj is back on her in a moment, free of his clothing and nudging her legs further apart at the ankle. He spreads her open, rubbing the round head of his sex up and down the folds of her own. She is impatient, and tries to thrust back on him when she feels him urge over her entrance. Abby’s attempt is unsuccessful, and Ten’dajin makes some sort of chastising huff.

“Ya’ aren’t ready,” he tells her.

“I am!” she argues. “I’m _so_ ready.”

He gives a dry chuckle. “No ya’ not,” he draws out his words. She can hear his eyes rolling.

“Just do it,” she implores, voice hitching into a breathy gasp as he returns to his preparatory ministrations.

“Ya’ sure?” he asks, focusing little strokes over her clit.

“Yes,” she replies firmly, knocking her forehead against the table. “Please.” The pleasantry is only slightly desperate to her ears.

His left hand brushes over her lower back, taking ahold of the soft flesh over her right hip. He uses the arm that he’s positioned over her back to pull her away from the table some, and she returns to balancing herself with the forearm she’d been prepared to sacrifice.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises with a pat.

Abby trills with an eager sound that is somewhere between a squeal and a sigh when she feels him start to work himself inside of her. True to his word, he takes his sweet fucking time. He inches into her slowly at first, fractional pulls and thrusts that seem to go on forever. He’s pinned her again, wise to the fact that Abby would have knocked back into him at the first chance. Instead, she is forced into patience. Spreading her legs wider and canting her hips is the most encouragement she can offer. Daj stills after his front is flush to her back.

“Are ya’ alright?” he asks, beginning to withdraw and tightening his grip on her hip in a comforting gesture.

She grumbles at him. “I’d be much better if you’d just f- _ugh_!”

His first real thrust is rough, and it catches in uncomfortable ways which indicate that she, perhaps, would have benefited from _a bit_ more foreplay. She’s thankful that Ten’dajin isn’t the type for ‘I told you so,’ and concentrates on arching into the soft rhythm he sets after the first go chafes. It isn’t long before she’s panting and encouraging him to move faster, thrust harder. He remains gentle, chiding her for her impatience and rocking his body into hers with steady, controlled strokes that still bring about all of the deliciously undignified slapping sounds she expects from sex experienced while bare, damp, and bent over a table.

She lets him have this round the way he wants. After all, they’ve got the entire night, and she’s missed him terribly.        

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading guys. I always appreciate it so much <3


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